


Fate's Hands (Sin For Me, Darling)

by RacheIDuncan



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, Kinda, Soulmate AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-24 15:25:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3773740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RacheIDuncan/pseuds/RacheIDuncan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"So, outta us, who's the spider and who's the fly?"</p><p>A chance meeting, a gun, a waitress, an agent, an affair, a true romance.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Fate's Hands (Sin For Me, Darling)

**Author's Note:**

> tw: period-typical homophobia, racism

**true romance (n. phrase)**  
A couple  
_so intoxicated with one another that they fear nothing_  
in the pursuit of the realisation of each other,  
_actions fueled by blind unconditioned love._

 

—

 

**_i give you myself, before preaching or law_ **

 

—

 

She hadn’t dressed for this.

Rain sloshes along gutter, beating down so hard on the sidewalk it hits back up, calves and knees all along the street are soaked through. Suits and skirts have grimaces on their faces as they tackle to keep their umbrellas up against the wind. It’s all perfectly frivolous mind, they all appear to look like drowned rats; they simply use their umbrellas as an excuse, therefore, when they enter into work a few minutes later they can justify their disheveled attire with a laugh behind their words, shaking their heads as they wring out their ties, their scarves. She’d done it herself a couple of times mind, in the depths of December when she was caught up in almost traumatic rainfall. If she entered alone, the other boys in the office would be quick to cringe at her saturated coat, at her loose and frizzed victory rolls. It truly is remarkable how quickly men choose to critique a woman’s appearance when they believe there to be no man there to defend her, particularly when Krzeminski has, in fact, been wearing the same shirt with the mustard stain on the collar for two weeks straight now. 

Peggy wrinkles her nose and looks up at the man next to her. He gives her that playful, near cocky look, grabs her hand and tugs her out from under cover of the canopy in front of their apartment building. 

Instantly, she feels the weight of the rain beat down against her head, her hair quickly dampening. With his hand pulling her down the street, she has to skip along to keep up, and the rain makes tidal waves against her ankles. 

“Steve!” 

He turns around, his comb over now slack with a piece of hair hanging by his eyes. A grin, so bright, and he shouts, the wind and rain almost drowning his voice out: 

“It’s only a little rainfall, come on!” 

Peggy has to sigh, but still a smile tugs up at her lips and she has to relent just slightly and let the rain just run across her. She has to admit, begrudgingly though, it makes her feel alive. Running in the rain with Steve, her heart beats, her lungs heave, she feels everything. 

They don’t tell you how much you’ll learn to cherish that feeling when you’re signing up for the war. 

Regardless, a few blocks later, Peggy’s shoulder begins to royally ache. It has a habit, you see, of seizing up in the cold weather, or if she takes too long soaking in the bath. Although, it’s probably understandable, given that she did repair that wound by herself with one hand. The scar is gruesome and hyperbolic -- it wasn’t nearly as bad as it seems. Perhaps. Still, she pulls on Steve’s hand and it’s her turn to drag him under the canopy of the nearest building. 

When they stop, he turns to her, all smiles and dashing look in his eye, “You okay?” 

She inhales, rolls her neck, “Yes, quite. I just need a moment.” 

He knows what that means. 

“Do you want me to swing by the pharmacy on my break? Get you some ointment?” 

“I’ll be fine, darling,” Shakes her head resolutely. Rolling her lip between her teeth, Peggy looks around, then up at where they’ve found themselves. “I’d like to get out of the cold though, for a moment.” 

Steve joins her, looks through the windows of the building where people of all kinds are bustling about. He asks, “Breakfast?” 

“We’ll be late.” 

“We’re allowed to be.” 

Peggy grins, “I wouldn’t want the boys at the office to get the wrong impression of me.” 

At this, Steve’s innocent little eyebrows furrow and he asks, “What impression would they get?” 

“That I’m only where I am because I’m Captain America’s wife,” Peggy says with a raise of her eyebrow. Her hand rests on the handle of this what appears to be a little cafe. She goes to open it when Steve replies with: 

“Cap doesn’t have a wife, ma'am,” Instead, he pushes the door, holds it open for her. “Steve Rogers does.” 

Peggy laughs, pushes him into the cafe, “You know what I mean, you bastard.” 

Where they’ve found themselves, Peggy notes with only a slight intonation of disdain is one of these dingy diner type places. The type that would look out of place if you were to be walking along Westminster, Peggy considers, she’d much prefer to have found a nice, little tea shop. There are bright colours illuminating every surface, even the waiting staff were scantily wrapped up in a bright blue colour. Peggy’s eyes follow the skirt of a waitress as she breezes through the crowds of rain-soaked customers to a table. Blue has always been her favourite. 

Clearing her throat, Peggy gestures to an empty booth somewhere near the back of the place. She lets out one of her throaty laughs as Steve bounds over to it and eagerly starts thumbing through a menu. Peggy steps over in her much more eloquent fashion. 

“Waffles?” He asks, not looking up from the menu. “Or Bacon? Eggs? Everything?” 

“Order the whole bloody automat if you want, Steve, just do it quickly.” 

Peggy settles down into her seat. With her chin resting against the heel of her hand, she watches Steve fondly. His forehead crinkles slightly as he scrutinizes the menu. Their wedding, it had been an excruciatingly private affair. Several days after V-E day, they’d found themselves in London, Peggy picking up several small boxes of belongings she had left at her grandmother’s. The woman had sent her out on the street one night before the war, the old witch, didn’t give her near enough time to pack her things. She’d been found that night, joined the French Resistance, heard word months later that her grandmother had passed. Peggy had pretended for those years that she didn’t care, the woman hated her, but placing the last few things into boxes that day, Peggy had become rather wrought with grief. 

She never has been one for dealing with things well. 

Steve had held her as she cried into that sodding blanket. Later, she’d whispered that she wouldn’t know what to do without him. He asked her to marry him. 

The next day, with that wretched Stark as a witness, they said ‘I do’. 

A year and a touch later, Peggy still grins at the thought, full teeth, bright lips. 

“So what can I get you dolls today then?” 

A chipper voice distracts, and Peggy looks up. This waitress, her smile too sweet, too forced, and a slight limp to the way she stands as though she’s been walking too much. The little hat has fell down slightly to the left of her head. Her eyes bleed exhaustion. 

“I’ll have the bacon and eggs, please, ma’am,” Steve says with a shy little smile. 

Peggy nods, “I’ll have the same please.” She glances at her name badge. “Gloria.” 

The waitress perks up at this, no one ever calls her by her name presumably, “Coming right up. Any drinks? I’ll take you for a tea drinker, Union Jack.” 

“Earl grey, if you have it,” Peggy chuckles. 

“Make that two teas, please, Gloria,” Steve smiles. 

“You got it.” 

With that, Gloria sashays away. Peggy watches her leave. A ragged breath, she turns back to Steve who’s watching her with that goddamn playful smirk. It’s not that she feels any sort of embarrassment about it. She’d mentioned a few times to him, about her inclinations. Playful fumbles in boarding school. Warm bodies in Eastern Europe. She loves people and loves how they make her feel, it shouldn’t be a crime, should it? To like both men and women? He hadn’t taken anger to it, mind. Steve had understood and shrugged himself. Of course he understood, Steve’s a knight in shining armour, it’s his duty, his life source, to love people, all people. That’s why she loves him and he loves her. Since the night of her maybe slightly sloshed confession, Steve had taken it upon himself to joke about it whenever he eyes lingered, just a moment too long, on another woman. 

“You know, any other man would start beating his wife if he knew that she had a fancy for women as well,” Peggy says, her voice is quiet against the sounds of everyone else in the automat; purposefully or not, she couldn’t tell you. 

Steve leans closer to her, winks, “I know you could take me in a fight any day.” He stretches back, watches her with bright eyes. “And, I know you love me -- you ‘fancy’ men and I’m not threatened, why should I be by you liking women too?” 

Peggy reaches across the table and kisses him. 

“Alright, lovebirds, this is a family establishment,” comes Gloria’s voice. “Loosen up.” 

Peggy nips Steve’s lip, only lightly, before she sits back down, “I apologise profusely, Gloria, I don’t know what came over me.” 

Gloria places the mugs on the counter, “I do, he’s a dish, Union Jack.” With a smug smirk, she pours the tea from the pot. “And if what I hear about you British boarding school types...” 

Steve laughs, “Oh you wouldn’t believe--Mmph.” And he buckles over with a forced smile, rubbing his hand along his shin. 

Peggy smiles sweetly, her the toe of her heel pressing into his knee, “Yes, well, rumours are quite farcical really.” 

“I don’t know, Union Jack, you seem--” 

“My name’s Peggy, by the way,” A swift change of subject, something Peggy had always learnt saves the day. She swallows, “And that sorry excuse for a man is Steve.” 

“You married me,” Steve counters. 

“I regret it every waking second,” Peggy deadpans. Dramatically, she leans back in her seat. “Oh, Gloria, please save me from this terrible marriage, this man, he’s horrible.” 

Gloria lets out a loud laugh, one that has many customers turning to their table. She says, “You’re a dramatic gal, Peggy, you should meet----” 

She’s cut off by a sound that has Peggy, on one hand sighing, and on the other, looking at Steve. She gives him a swift nod. 

“Nobody leave their seats! I want all your wallets and purses out! Now!” A gruff man, with a beard matted and long is shouting. Peggy eyes him, reaching her hand along her leg. There. He’s pointing a gun, a revolver, perhaps, three shots in it, at everyone. 

A suited man makes an effort to move, to reach for, presumably, his wife and the gunman jabs the barrel in his direction. Then this man, he grabs a waitress. A blur of bright blue. 

Peggy’s quick to pull her gun out from under her skirt. 

She’s tired of the sound of screaming. 

Steve follows her, lingers behind. She rather hates him for not believing in carrying guns himself. How many times had they discussed this? ‘I just don’t see the point now the war’s over, Peg.’ ‘The war is never over, Steve, don’t kid yourself, it doesn’t suit you.’ Every time ended in some argument where one of them would resign by taking tea to the other, or in Steve’s case, tea and cake if Peggy was being particularly resilient (which was most of the time). 

She knows that he’s coming up with strategies, trying to find ways for absolutely no one to get hurt. Peggy, forever the do-er then thinker, steps closer and closer to the gunman. 

“Sir, I really rather think you ought to let her go,” She growls, ferocious. 

He tightens her grip around this waitresses, “Not until I get what I want, Queen Victoria.” 

Peggy rolls her eyes, “Must all you dimwitted Americans insist on calling me that? I’ll have you know I’m not overly fond of the monarchy.” 

“Peg---” 

“Put down your gun, Vic, or the lady gets it,” The gunman grunts. Steve must move behind because, “Stay where you are Pretty Boy.” 

“Very well,” Peggy says, slowly begins to lower her gun. The waitress shakes her head, eyes bulging. Peggy doesn’t pay her much mind. Behind her Gloria inhales sharply, she can practically feel Steve tense. “I’m sorry but I’m afraid this going to hurt.” 

In a swift, fluid motion, Peggy sends a bullet flying to just over the waitresses head, sending the gunman off guard. The moment he spends turning his head is when Peggy jumps, a forced kick to his stomach. His grasp on the waitress slackens and Peggy throws her to the ground behind her where Steve is. The gunman raises his barrel again, starts shooting wildly, bullets hitting the ceiling. A light fixture falls. Peggy elbows him in the jaw, punches the gun from his hand. Snaps his wrist back. 

He crumbles under her, bones shattering. 

“Now, sir, what is it you wanted?” 

The gunman, gunless man moreover, he spits, “What kinda freak lady are you?” 

Peggy bends his wrist back even more, he cries, she says, “I’m just Peggy, sir, I’m not special.” She pauses, drops his arm. He doesn’t run, no, she knew he’d stay, and he curls in on himself. “You must just be weak.” 

It’s Steve’s heavy hand on her shoulder that has her turning around. He looks down at the man, “I’ll take him in? You still have tea left.” 

“Are you sure?” 

A squeeze on her shoulder, “Just make sure you get my eggs and bacon to go, okay? I’ll see you at the office, tell them you’re gonna be late.” 

Peggy smiles, “Alright, I’ll see you later.” 

Steve, he crouches down and picks the gunman up -- he’s whimpering quietly to himself, “Love you, Carter.” 

“Love you too, Rogers,” She says, a small smile as he pushes through the doors. Her ring, for some odd reason, feels heavy on her finger. 

Peggy turns around and is suddenly met with two spindly arms wrapping around her neck. Warmth. Soft hair against her jaw. Her hands, they rest on this woman’s waist. 

An electric shock, and Peggy jumps away, “Um, sorry, hello?” 

Small, that’s what Peggy would use to describe this woman, the waitress from before. Now that she lets herself consider this woman, for the same height as Peggy, she seems small, almost scrawny. She looks as though she should have beaten knees, with bandaids hanging off. Her hair is neat though, her uniform starched. A wannabe starlet maybe, but the confidence and prowess, the narcissism, she should exude? Peggy can’t find it in the way she ducks her head, toes the floor. Perhaps it’s years of being beaten down. Perhaps it’s the lighting. But her voice is loud, and she talks in an almost enigmatic way. A juxtaposition, if you would. 

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to jump on you, you saved me, English!” 

Her name badge, it says, in bold letters: ‘ANGIE’. 

And in that moment, when she looks up and meets Peggy’s eyes, well that moment explodes. 

Her heart, it thuds, it beats with such a ferociousity it could be an animal, caged at the circus, it could be trying to escape. Savage, really, that’s how it feels, how it claws. Her lungs, laboured, she feels her own breathing in such an intensity that she’s unfamiliar with. Everything about her, in this moment, everything about her is wild. 

“I, uh, I wanted to say thank you, really, for, uh, you know, savin’ my bacon and all,” Angie, this marvellous creature, spits out. She’s shaking, only slightly. It’s adrenaline, isn’t it? Fight or flight, Peggy muses, nothing to do with her. It can’t be. 

Peggy, in the back of her mind, she hears claws scratch against metal. 

Angie quirks her lips. 

Peggy, she swallows, presses the lion inside of her down, and lets out an airy breath. Her lips curl upwards. 

“Damnit, Martinelli, thank the goddamn lady already and get your ass back here and serve table twelve!” 

With a dramatic roll of her eyes, Angie, she mutters another ‘thank you, English’. The owner of the voice, a gruff, raggedy looking man with grease stains in every place observable, taps a spatula against the serving station. Angie’s still shaking when her shoulder grazes Peggy’s. She feels lights. 

Settling back into her booth, Peggy returns to her tea. It’s only lukewarm now. A sigh, she likes her Earl’s burning. Over the rim, her fingers squeezing the handle just a slight too tightly, Peggy watches as Angie ducks her head and flutters over to table twelve, two plates in hand. She has this gracefulness that Peggy finds simply entrancing. Her eyes, they’re drawn to the majestic way in which Angie’s calves tense and relax, her biceps, the veins on her hands that bulge when she moves her fingers. 

Gloria places a plate down beside her, “You’re a superhero, aren’t you, Union Jack?” 

Peggy looks up, lowers her tea, “I’m afraid that may be an ill-fitting accolade.” 

“You saved Angie’s life,” Gloria remarks, hand on her hip, she leans. “She’s got real dreams that kid, she’s gonna make it one day, and you made sure of that.” 

“It’s my job,” Peggy says offhandedly. Her eyes are still following Angie. Her hands flick as she draws the order book from her apron. Left handed, the way she holds her pencil makes her wrists appear so gentle. 

Gloria hums, “Superhero.” 

Peggy shakes her head, knife and fork in hand, “And what of your dreams, Gloria? Surely you have aspirations too?” 

“I’m black, Union Jack, this is as a big a dream I can have,” Gloria says. 

Peggy ducks her head. 

“Look, I’m doin’ good, I’m not runnin’ around in Louisiana cleanin’ up white people’s shit,” Gloria says with a smile. It could be melancholic. It perhaps is. "I'm here in New York cleanin' up after superheroes. It could always be worse.” 

“Hey, negro, am I payin’ you to stand there and talk?” The godforsaken cook barks out again. 

Peggy’s fingers tighten on the knife. 

“No, sir, I’ll be with you right away,” Gloria, like Angie, rolls her eyes dramatically. 

Before she leaves, Peggy touches her arm, earnestly, she says, “I’ll fix this for you, I promise.” 

Gloria laughs, “You’re a superhero, Union Jack, but not even you could change the world that much.”  
  
  
—  
  
  
The SSR office is particularly dull today. Perhaps it’s the heavy clouds in the sky, or the disgruntled look that Krzeminski gives her when she saunters into the office. Everything seems so lackluster, so...morose. Sullen. The clip of her heels against the floor feels too loud, too intrusive. With a resolute sigh, she drops the paper bag with Steve’s breakfast down on his desk. He’s not there, but the photograph of the two of them is. She smiles at it. Clearing her throat, Peggy barely has time to remove her coat and click her neck before Chief Dooley is calling for her: 

“Carter!” 

Steve in tow, Dooley squares up to her, “That punk is pressing charges! Sayin’ you should be done for assault and battery!” 

Ludicrous, he had a gun and a hostage, there was nothing else she could have done. Still, she swallows against Dooley’s dominance, glances at Steve. He shakes his head. 

“Get out of my sight, Carter, out of it!” 

He slams his door with a such a force that it swings back open. 

Peggy deflates. She leans against her desk and rubs her temples. 

“Peg, come on, you know they can’t charge you with anything,” Steve says softly. Her eyes are closed. “Hey, don’t let it get to you, come on, take the rest of the day off.” 

At this, a sardonic laugh, “Maybe I should simply take the rest of the week off, yes? The month? How about I just stop bothering to turn up? Everyone would be happy then, wouldn’t they?” 

“I wouldn’t.” 

Steve reaches out, brushes his hand against her cheek. She shrugs away. 

“Never in the workplace, Rogers.” 

Sighing, Steve looks around. Krzeminski hurriedly scrawls something down. Steve licks his lips, “You promised Howard a lunch a couple of months back, didn’t you? Why don’t you follow through on that offer?” 

Peggy clicks her jaw. 

“Fine.” 

“I’ll see you back at the apartment?” 

Thin-lipped, “Yes.” 

Steve simply shakes his head, he’s always known when to just leave her to it, and goes to her desk, picking up his breakfast. 

Peggy, another roll of her shoulders, picks up her coat---- 

“...we need to find out everything we can about Leviathan and bring them down…” 

Her ears prick, mouth thins. 

She leaves. 

(Peggy makes sure to call by the basement to pull out any and all files she can. She knows of Leviathan, she’s heard it before. The files slip subtly under her coat. They’ll never know that she’s taken them, after all, men never go into the filing systems.)  
  
  
—  
  
  
With books from the library tucked under her arms, for the second time that day, Peggy Carter settles down into her booth of the L&L automat. The booth, admittedly, is perfectly positioned within the restaurant, giving her just enough observational leeway that she can see almost everyone within the building, risk assessments tumbling through her mind as she spreads these books, and the files, across the table. If anyone were to question, however, she’d simply look a scholar. 

Peggy clicks her neck. 

‘According to legend, the Leviathan was a fire-breathing creature of such immense size that the sea boils when it swims on the surface. It ruthlessly and fearlessly rules over all the creatures of the sea. In Jewish mythology, Leviathan (‘that which is drawn out’) is a primordial sea serpent---’ 

“Twice in one day, English? I sure am lucky.” 

Peggy, in all her espionage training, she jumps at the voice. Swallowing her thudding heart, she looks up to Angie, one hand on her hip, the other holding the tea pot. She has a rather serendipitous smile about her face and Peggy has to lick her lips. She doesn’t understand, as Angie pours tea out for her, why she’s so wonderfully entranced by this woman, a simple waitress with a grin as bright as day. 

“He’s a nasty lookin’ fella.” 

Peggy blinks, “I’m sorry?” 

Angie, she settles the teapot down and gestures to the artist depiction on the large, open book at the table, “He doesn’t look like somethin’ I’d’ve smuggled home when I was a kid. And I snuck home a sewer rat. Ma wasn’t happy for weeks.” 

“I’m sorry, Angie, I shouldn't have these out here; it’s---” 

Stumbling, she tries to fold the book over, however, Angie just places her hand over Peggy’s. She’s smiling in such a way that has Peggy glancing down at her lips. Gosh, they look so gentle. With sincerity, Angie thanks her again. 

“What’s your favourite type of pie?” Angie asks, with a final squeeze to Peggy’s hand, she clears her throat. 

“Um... savoury or sweet?” 

That gets her raised eyebrows. 

“This is America. What do you think?” 

Peggy hums a smile at that, “Rhubarb.” 

“One slice of rhubarb pie, coming right up,” And she’s gone in a swish of her skirt before Peggy even has the chance to argue.  
  
  
—  
  
  
"...so you see, Leviathan is one of the three creatures which will be served at the banquet feast at the end of time. Afterwards, its skin is to be stretched as a canopy from the walls of Jerusalem to illuminate the world..." Peggy trails off, her lips coming to rest on the rim of her tea cup. 

The day had passed in quick succession. Customers came and went in an unnoticed flurry as Peggy worked on studying these documents - the most she can conjure is that perhaps this group, this organisation is using the waters for whatever it is they're doing. She can't very well ask Dooley about their acts and the files she'd liberated provided very little insight. 

Instead, as the sun tumbled down and Angie untied her apron, Peggy found herself seated at the booth simply talking with her. Angie's a curious soul, you see, nothing is unfathomable to her, nothing too frightening, too garish. "I like the weird," is what she'd said, flicking lazily through Peggy's rented mythology text, "weird is where I'm home." 

So, after minimal persuasion because Angie's eyes sparkled something special, Peggy conformed into explaining the source of the myth of Leviathan. 

Angie nods along, chewing unabashedly on a piece of pie. It really is delectable, Peggy must admit. Her eyebrows furrow in that adorable away and she swallows before saying: 

"God's a pretty sick guy, huh?" 

Peggy chuckles, "Now, Angie, what would your mother say if she saw you now? Being blasphemous towards the Lord?" 

Angie glances away at that, lowering her head a little bit. She says, "Probably say it's not the worst thing I've done." 

And before Peggy can even inquire for an elaboration, sharp gasps are chorused in such a way that she itches towards her gun. 

Then she relaxes. Because the reason for the all the inhalations? Billionaire, playboy, genius: Howard Stark. 

Angie rolls her eyes, a hyperbolic grimace decorating her features, "Never got the whole Stark thing; he seems like an ass." 

Peggy closes the books over, "Rest assured, you're probably right." 

Angie quirks an eyebrow, "You know him, English?" 

"Heavens no. 'Course not." 

"Peggy! Cap said I'd find you here! How you been, my favourite dame?" 

Howard Stark has never understood the art of subtlety for as long as she's known him. He embodies a persona, each morning, and becomes a cartoon character of a human being. Peggy hates him for it. But she loves him too. 

Angie just shakes her head, a small laugh on her lips, when Howard sidles down next to Peggy in the booth. 

"Remind me to kill Steve when I get home," Peggy grumbles sarcastically. "Here I was thinking I could make it two months without you." 

Howard's laugh is booming, "You know you love me, Maggie, you can't hide it." 

"Call me that again I'll ensure you don't walk, much less sleep with women, for the next two years." 

He pales. Angie chuckles. 

Shaking his head, Howard says, “Least we’ll always have Budapest, huh, Carter?” 

At this, Angie perks up, raised eyebrows and all, and she asks about Budapest. 

“So basically, there were these Russians right….”

Peggy leans back in her seat, a dramatic eye roll, and watches they way Angie tucks her hand under her chin. It’s mystifying really, Peggy muses, they way Angie’s head leans backwards as she lets out a hearty laugh. She’s marvellous. Truly unfathomable, this grandeur. And the way her eyes sparkle as Howard tells his story--- 

The way her eyes sparkle at Howard. 

Clearing her throat, suddenly, Peggy asks, “Angie, darling, would you like to join Steve, Howard and I for dinner tomorrow night?”  
  
  
—  
  
  
The sort of orange hue that descends on their apartment in the West Village when it’s time to turn the lights one was a colour Peggy had had to learn to be content with. Opposed to perhaps the rest of the world, she’d much rather find comfort in the cold tones of blue and purple. The orange was far too garish, far too warm. Besides, everything looks much for fantastical under blue and white lights, much more mystical. It took many a bickering with Steve until she had relented, saying something about how science said--- 

As soon as he started talking about science, she’d tuned out. Always much more a do-er and thinker, that’s how Peggy functions. Never caring for the technicalities, the details. She’s a soldier at heart after all. 

That very same hue was lighting their kitchen right now, as Steve stirred the whatever he’d cooked up around the pan. Dressed in the frilly ill-fitting apron Peggy’s brother had sent her as a wedding present, he looks really quite ridiculous, his dress shirt, white with a blue tie, underneath. 

Peggy leans against the doorframe, holding up two dresses, “Should I wear the red?” 

Steve glances over, “You know I love you in the purple.” 

A sigh tumbles from her lips and she busies herself back in the bedroom. 

Rolling her neck and sliding stockings up her legs, Peggy hears the distinct sound of a knock on the door. Mumbles as Steve answers. She could pray to all Gods that Howard hadn’t chose this time to arrive whilst she’s still, well, undressed. 

“You like lilies, don’t ya, Engli---Christ!” 

Peggy turns around sharply, a flush down her body as she sees Angie, holding a bouquet and covering her eyes. 

“Um, yes, thank you, they’re my favourite…” Peggy clears her throat. Hooks her stockings to the garter and pulls her slip on. “Um, you can look.” 

Angie, agonisingly slowly, lowers her hands. Her eyes settle, almost restricted like, on Peggy's face. She smiles, "Sorry for, uh...Steve, he, uh, just sent me in..." 

"It's quite alright, Angie, I was rather panicking thinking you were Howard." 

"Oh but you had that night in Budapest, didn't you?" Angie ventures. 

With a scowl, Peggy hisses, "We were clothed and heavily sedated. The rest is just a fantasy of his." 

"Whatever you say, English," Angie chuckles. She glances down towards the bed and Peggy's heart skips a beat. Steve's whistling in the kitchen. "So what dress are you going for?" 

"Well, the red is my favourite," Peggy says, her fingers brush across the material. "But Steve much prefers the purple." 

"He blind?" 

Peggy shivers. Angie's moved right beside her, close. She can feel her breath against her bare shoulder. Vulnerable, that's how she feels, and reckless. 

She feels like maybe she wants to turn around and touch her. Just to feel that shock again. It's addicting, you see. 

But no, the smell of lilies in the air, that's not the point to this night. This dinner is for her to lean into Steve whilst Angie and Howard fall for each other. 

Yes. 

Angie and Howard. 

Peggy and Steve. 

"Seriously, English, wear the red." 

That's the way it has to be. 

Her wedding ring burns.  
  
  
—  
  
  
Steve's meal, as per usual, is simply wonderful. Peggy thinks her grandmother would be turning over in her grave at the very notion of her husband being the more domestic one. She's never claimed to want to be the doting housewife, not even in her younger years, so it should be no shock that Steve's the one to cook and serve dinner. 

It's just the way things work. Ah, how she can hear the telephone ladies' voices are they croon and ask her about what she must do if she leaves the cooking to her husband and the housework to their bi-weekly maid. Her job, she'd say, was far too busy. 

Of course Steve has the same job as her effectively, even if sometimes he has to decorate himself in that sordid costume for an appearance or two. But Peggy has the longer shifts and the more (albeit, meaningless) tasks to culminate some sort of equivalent pay. 

She simply doesn't have the time to prepare meals. Never mind that she's more able to kill a man with utensils instead of make something edible. 

With her fork swinging loosely in her hand as she slowly chews, Peggy finds herself watching Angie again. The same thrill that ran up her body in the bedroom starts up again and she's sure to push it down and out, choosing instead to focus on the way Angie tilts her head and curls a loose strand of hair around her finger as Howard speaks. 

Telltale signs of attraction. 

That lion inside her, maybe it whimpers. 

Steve appears to have cottoned on to Peggy's plan too, laughing lightly along with them before saying: 

"Looks like you two are pretty sweet together; maybe Angie here can be your settle down dame, eh, Stark?" 

It's as soon as the words are out of his mouth that Peggy watches Angie become very tense. 

Howard, a remarkably smitten look about himself, shoves Steve's arm, grumbles, "Shut your mouth, Spangles." 

Angie's silent for the rest of dinner. 

Later, as Howard skips off into the kitchen to help Steve with the washing up -- Peggy's fully aware that this means him sitting on the counter and giving Steve far too detailed information on how to 'properly show a dame a good time' -- she finds Angie, wine glass in her hand, leaning against the windowsill and looking out into the streets. She looks fantastic, in this light blue frock that brings out the colour in her eyes. Clichéd, Peggy's aware, but it's the truth. Her hands, they're tense around the glass, her jaw is tight. 

Peggy clears her throat and Angie looks up at her. 

"I was just going to pop out for a cigarette, care to join me?" 

Angie glances away, white wine swirling in her glass, "I don't smoke, English, gotta keep the pipes fresh for the stage, don't you know?" She looks up again and it's her eyes that betray her. Peggy thinks she'd be a wonderful actress but that defeat just screams out at her. "Won't make it if I'm drawlin' like an old hag." 

Peggy rolls her lower lip between her teeth. 

"Come with me." 

And Angie does.  
  
  
—  
  
  
Tendrils of smoke follow them lazily as they make their way down 14th street in silence. No noise except the hussle of late evening traffic and the sound of their heels clicking against the cobblestones. The night air, though humid, feels heavy with something else, something that Peggy observes weighs down on Angie's shoulders. 

Peggy inhales another long drag, gazing sideways to see Angie hurriedly wipe at her eyes. 

She touches her arm. That shock. Angie yanks herself away. 

"Look, Angie, darling, what is it? What's the matter?" 

Angie, she rubs her eyes again, throws on a bright, albeit empty, smile, says, "Nothin'! I'm right as rain, English." 

Peggy steps closer, "I can tell that you're lying." 

"Trust me, it's better I do," Angie's eyes don't leave the floor and Peggy thinks that's an awful waste. "You don't wanna hear a gal like me tellin' the truth." 

"Angie, please, you can tell me anything," Peggy yearns to brush her fingers against Angie's arm but now isn't the time. "You'll have no judgment from me, I just want to know what's the matter." 

Angie kicks her foot against the ground, turns sharply, "You hardly know me, Peggy." 

There it is. No nickname, no comfort. It's almost foreign, strange. And perhaps it true, perhaps Peggy does hardly know Angie but the reality of it is clouded by the serendipitous familiarity she feels when she reaches out again and grazes Angie's arm. Peggy feels her shiver. 

"Darling, so what?" 

Angie turns, agonisingly slowly it seems, and says, "You could have me locked up." 

"And why would I---" 

That look in Angie's eyes, Peggy sees it now, the one that she herself had become so acquainted with seeing in the gazes of past lovers. Fear. Self-loathing. And, at the very back of it, only a glimmer, a sense of liberation. 

Angie shakes her head, a dejected glaze falling over her as she backs away from Peggy. 

Peggy brings her cigarette to her lips, watching Angie carefully, and considering. There are so many things she could say in this instance, so many responses bubbling up, but instead, smoke billowing from her mouth, she says: 

"Oh." 

Angie appears to buckle at that. Looking up, clouded by the heavy nicotine tainted air surrounding them and leaning against the brick wall, she looks so pained. The lion, caged deep in Peggy's chest, scratches and cries against the wrought iron cage it’s entrapped within. 

"You gonna hit me now, Peggy? Burn me with that cigarette?" Angie asks in the smallest voice. 

Peggy takes a slow step forward, drops the end of her cigarette, "I could never." 

"'s what people do," Angie shrugs. She meets Peggy's eyes with tears in her own. "They hit you and call you a freak and that--...and that you're better off dead." 

"Well, I'm not people, darling, I'm your friend," Peggy reaches out, the pad of her thumb brushing the tears away from Angie's eyes. "I don't care who you love, only that you find it." 

And Angie breaks and Peggy's lion cries. 

She shivers with relief, with liberation and Peggy holds her. It's odd, how well Angie fits between her arms, secure, tight. They slot so perfectly against each other it's as though they've spent childhoods and young adult years together. 

Eventually, Peggy's body humming with electricity, Angie pulls away and smiles up at her. With tear trails down her cheeks, Angie seems happier than ever before. 

Quirking her lips in a small, reassuring grin, Peggy simply laces her arm with Angie's and they continue to walk down the street. They talk about everything and nothing, from Angie's trysts in the church bathroom with Cindy Morello to the fights a scrappy young Peggy got into with the boys across the lake when they'd hound her for a kiss. She doesn't tell Angie about her own inclinations yet, perhaps because this Angie's night of revelation. It has nothing to do with lion in her chest or the electricity surging in her veins. 

They find themselves, quite ridiculously, at the Williamsburg Bridge. It's far from Peggy's apartment but she doesn't even consider Steve as Angie's hands squeeze the metal bar of the railing and she looks out at the river. 

It's then when Angie giggles. Shy at first but then she's howling, gripping the railing so she doesn't buckle over. Moonlight in her hair, head thrown back in laughter, Peggy can't pull her eyes away. 

"Darling, what's so hilarious?" 

Angie dabs her eyes, grinning, she giggles, "It's all ridiculous, English, just--just look at that, Peg, look at that and tell me our problems are big. There’s oceans and oceans out there.” 

Stepping next to Angie and gazing out at the East River, Peggy finds herself chuckling. She leans into Angie, shoulders brushing. 

Silence eventually and inevitably falls on them and Peggy rolls her bottom lip between her teeth. She glances at Angie, "I...You know,Angie, I'm awfully glad I saved your life." 

Angie turns. Too close. 

Peggy's breath hitches and her memories flit to quiet fumbles in the changing rooms, in the courtyards. 

"Me too, English." 

Their eyes meet for a moment too long and Peggy, nothing but white noise and a lion panting in her mind, she leans in. 

And a ship's horn blares. 

Clearing her throat, Peggy looks away, Angie's eyes burn into her but she fixates on the waves below. 

"We should..." Peggy starts, nips at her lip. 

From the corner of her eye, she sees Angie nod her head, "Yeah, uh, yeah, St---...your husband'll be wait in' for us." 

Peggy smokes four cigarettes on the way back. 

She's never felt more like Daniel in the Den.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
